What A Beautiful Wedding
by waiting-for-the-magic
Summary: When the vicar says the magic words, it's time to pour the champagne. But once the honeymoon begins, Simon and Baz are left to contemplate a rather important question, without setting too many things on fire (or being fired for that matter). Featuring Simon and Baz, with occasional sightings of Penelope, Micah, and a new kind of magic. Co-written with demonoa and okish.olive.
1. What A Beautiful Wedding

**Author's Note - This is set about four years after Carry On. Loads of credit to the co-authors of this fanfic - my brilliant and talented friends demonoa and .olive. All credits to Rainbow Rowell for these characters. Thanks for reading!**

Baz

The suit fits perfectly. Sharp, elegant - exactly what I wanted. I look over at Snow. He's standing at the altar in crisp grey, a white rose tucked into his breast pocket. And he looks so happy. His smile is stretched across his face and I can tell he ran a comb through his curls this morning. I'd do anything to make Simon that happy.

 _Merlin_ , I need to pay attention. The only weddings I've ever been to were Pitch weddings - and they seemed more like Satanic rituals than weddings - so I'm not sure how long they're supposed to be. Maybe I should have paid more attention during the practice last night. I make eye contact with Simon, and it's clear we both think there should be some sort of legal limit on wedding length.

I glance at Micah, his thick brows draw together anxiously as he chews on his full bottom lip. I can see Penelope intertwine Micah's dark fingers with her own bronze ones. A subtle squeeze from her transforms his expression and she turns back to face the droning vicar.

 _Inhale, exhale._ I used to do that when Father gave me that cold glare that came with loving Simon. A boy. A beautiful boy. The head of the Grimm household isn't here today, he disapproves of my friends as much as he disapproves of me.

 _Inhale, exhale_.

The vicar clears his throat and I suddenly become aware of all the faces staring up at the beautiful couple standing on the altar - hands clutched, turned towards each other with something sparkling in their eyes.

"And now, you may kiss the bride."

Penelope looks gorgeous in a wedding dress.

Simon

All the happiness around me makes up for my suit that's slightly too tight on the shoulders. After all I put Penelope through in our school days, she deserves it. And Baz looks so sophisticated, almost regal, in his suit, it makes it worth it. And to think that I'm lucky enough to love him.

A sudden burst of cheering pulls me out of my thoughts and back to the present. People are standing up, smiling and crying as Penelope and Micah kiss, marking the end of the wedding ceremony. A massive grin stretches at my lips, my heart almost bursting for them. I reach out for Baz, wanting to share this moment with him. As my fingers brush his, he turns to look at me. His eyes crinkle into a smile that I know is only for me. I squeeze his hand three times, our silent code for _I love you._ He smiles again, then squeezes back.

Penelope

I find Micah's fingers, still standing beside him as we face the vicar. The happiness I'm feeling threatens to spill over the edges of my smile as I squeeze his hand reassuringly. As the officiant brings the ceremony to a close with his final words, and we turn to face one another, Micah tucks a piece of my blue hair behind my ear - with a touch as light as a feather. My heart races as the weight of the moment sinks in. _This is real. My life is changing forever._

And after this? Micah and I have found a little flat to live in, just two blocks from where Simon and Baz are. Simon. I look over at him, briefly, just long enough to see the radiance on his face, his gray suit, standing there next to Baz. He's found his happy ending. He'll stay in my life, I'll make sure of it, though my own is just starting. Micah will apply for technology jobs, as I start mine as a Coven Secretary. A small life, but it doesn't matter as long as I'm with him.

Is this my happy ending? My pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I think about the long walks we take together, the way he smiles at me. How whenever I mess up dinner, he swoops in with a kiss and a spoon, ready to transform whatever burnt mush I've created. And how my heart swells every time I see him. Swells with love.

Baz

The wedding party, despite its small number of attendees, is becoming slightly raucous. Guests are drinking, dancing with their partners, enjoying the celebrations. Daylight is streaming in through the gaps in the white tent over our heads. Penny and Micah sway together on the dance floor, smiling at each other nauseatingly to the rhythm of the band.

There's a reason I don't do weddings - aside from the fact that this is the only one I've been invited to outside of the ones The Families hosted. All the love, I suppose, is hard to stand. There was never much of that in the Pitch household.

Snow, on the other hand… I cut a glance at his bold profile, standing next to me. He sees me looking and pulls one of his seducing grins (I don't know if that's what he intended. Either way, it worked, I'm seduced).

"May I have this dance?" He asks in that ridiculously low, soft voice of his. I roll my eyes in response.

"Crowley, Snow, you really know how to entice, don't you?" I say, taking his outstretched hand. It's soft and warm, his cherry-red nail varnish chipping around the edges. I'm staring at our clasped hands - his just look so right inside of mine.

"What?" Simon says, "Don't tell me you only fell for me because of my hands."

"Don't flatter yourself Snow. Your hands look ridiculous. Like… scones." Simon snorts and flips his tangled hair back off his forehead. _Merlin,_ what has this boy done to me? All I can do when he's looking at me is compare his hands to scones. Seventh Year Basilton would have had a heart attack. Even First Year me would have had a better comeback then that.

But I've moved on from that. And with that I let go of his scone hands, wrap an elegant arm around Simon's waist, and press my right palm into his left.

Then I remember I'm queer. We're queer. By reflex, my eyes scan the surrounding dancers, searching for the narrowed eyes, the dirty looks that I'm accustomed to receiving from my father. I can't see anyone, so I twist my head further and further until I feel warm hands pulling me back.

"Baz. It's okay." I know. I know it's okay. " _We're_ okay." My eyes leave Simon's again, I can't help it. "Baz. I love you." That snaps me right back to him. Every _I love you_ is a beautiful poem, a promise. "Did I ever mention that?" My eyes open wider as we begin to sway to the gently melody. "Well, I do."

"Simon." He doesn't know how many nights I lay awake at Watford mouthing _I love you_ to the rhythm of his breathing _._ How every time it tore my heart into another bloody piece, because unrequited love was never the only problem.

Simon's looking at me, not expectantly, but like I'm the only person in the room. And with that, the staring strangers fade for me too. And all there is is Simon.

"I love you too."

Penelope

We're all ready to drive off, but there's one more thing I have to do. I toss the bouquet behind me, my eyes squeezed shut and my mouth open as I laugh at this tradition - one of those silly little moments I hope I'll remember for the rest of my life.

Baz

The flowers fly through the air, past the crowded dance floor, over the heads of the single women, their arms all outstretched in an attempt to grasp the bouquet. Past the cake, on and on until finally…

Simon

The bouquet is still soaring through the air. Penny has a serious throwing arm. I'm beginning to wonder if they'll ever drop when suddenly the velocity of the flowers slows dramatically. Right in front of me.

Baz

No. It can't. It's not possible that this is happening.

Simon

The flowers are coming at me so quickly that you would think that I was magnetic.

Baz

I refuse to believe this is happening.

Simon

I don't even have time to react. One moment they're above me, the next the hit me squarely in the temple.

Baz

 _Merlin_.

Simon

They bounce off my head and I fumble awkwardly, trying to catch them.

Baz

I stand frozen where I am. Snow's squashing the roses irreparably as he tries to grab ahold of the stems. His hand-eye coordination is appalling.

Simon

My cheeks turn red as I stare at the bouquet. I know what this means.

Baz

Simon just stands there, eyes fixated on the roses, stubbornly not looking at me. His pink cheeks are a flustered mess. If I wasn't undead, the implications of this would make me blush too.

A quick glance at the gawking spectators confirms that it's too late for Snow to hurl it at someone else and run. Bunce is laughing her head off, clutching Micah for support (it's rather terrifying), but everyone else stands there with their eyes fixed firmly on Simon. One by one they take in the nervous looks Snow keeps throwing me and connect the dots. Most smile, but there's some who seem to agree with my father.

The lump in my breast pocket feels heavier than before. I've been carrying it around for quite some time now, a velvet box with a simple silver band inside.

Simon

Baz is staring right at me, along with a hundred other guests. I cough awkwardly, not sure how I should react to this sudden attention. Guest began returning to the inside the tent as the band strikes up the music again. I walk over to Baz, still clutching the flowers in my hand. Suddenly, a car motor starts. Standing up on my toes, I crane my neck to get a glimpse of what's happening on the 's a jumble of white fabric swishing through the crowd - Penny. And she's seems to be running straight for me, face red from laughing. At me, probably.

"Simon!" She throws her arms out just as she slams into me. "I almost forgot to say goodbye!" Penny squeezes the life out of me, let's go, hugs me again, then turns around to leave.

"Pen, wait!" She turns, smiling.

I grin too. "I'm happy for you and Micah." She blows me a kiss in response, then runs back toward her car. Then, abruptly, she changes course, heading towards Baz.

Baz

Penelope, almost tripping over the massive folds of white fabric bustling around her, is stumbling towards me. I fold my arms in anticipation of what she's going to say to me. Instead of stopping, she runs almost right by me, so I miss my chance to make a snarky remark about how she's only going on a week long honeymoon. And to San Francisco, of all places. How… quaint. Typical Bunce. Slowing just enough to talk into my ear, she lifts herself on her tiptoes, just enough to reach my chin.

"Baz."

"Bunce." Penelope raises a quizzical brow, she's almost as talented as I am in that department. "Penny." I amend.

"Simon loves you. Do it soon." She turns promptly, "And Baz, I'll miss you." And with that, she's gone in a flurry of white. I feel my cheeks heat at her comment. Quite honestly, that girl never fails to surprise me.

Simon

I see Penelope get into the passenger's side of the car, shutting the door accidentally on her dress. She opens it just enough to pull in the folds of white before she closes it again. I see her lean over to kiss Micah before they begin to drive away in Penny's tiny white Beetle. I wave frantically, knowing she can't see me. Slowly, they drive out of sight, and I only put my hand down when I can't see them anymore. Baz walks over to me. I meet him halfway, smiling.

"Ready to go home, Snow?"

"Home. Yeah, I'm ready." I grab his hand (they fit mine like a glove), and lead him towards _our_ car.

Two weeks without Penny. Not that much can happen, right?


	2. Pour the Champagne

**Author's Note: So sorry this has taken such a long time and is so short! Don't worry though, there's more on the way. Again, endless credits to demonoa and .olive, my extremely talented co-writers. The world and characters in this story were created by the wonderful Rainbow Rowell. Keep calm and carry on (reading)!**

Simon

This was harder than I'd thought. It's just that I really never expected there to be so many types of cheese. _Gorgonzola, camembert, brie._ Why does this supermarket have so many? The Caprese salad recipe on my phone told me to use a soft cheese, but how was I supposed to choose when every label advertised exactly that?

"Okay, I've got this." I mutter under my breath as I close my eyes, spin around, and then grab a random one from the stack. _Mozzarella._ Maybe I should've paid attention all those times Baz made Penny cook for us. Mozzarella… would that work? Well, it would have to do, because the woman shooting nervous glances at me looks very close to calling security. Maybe that's what happens when you ask someone repeatedly for the Cheesiest, Softest Cheese in Cheeseland. _Whoops_.

After contemplating the mass of white dairy in my hand for at least two minutes, I give up and walk over to the grains aisle. It'll do.

Anyway, Baz isn't exactly a top chef either. All his meals come out practically flavourless or too flavorful - I guess his superior vampire taste buds can't handle normal food. Penny usually cooks, not by choice, but she knows we'd just forget and starve before we remember to put the chicken in the oven. It's not like it would come out edible either.

But that's all going to change this afternoon when I cook Baz dinner. And I mean a proper dinner, not last night's microwaved curry (I'm choosing to ignore the fact that I still consider the microwave a challenge). After doing extensive 'meals for beginners' searches, I've settled on a dinner of breaded chicken, caprese salad, and this weird rice with egg in it. Scanning over Waitrose's rice options, I'm beginning to regret not calling Penny about the recipe. But then again, she'd probably insist on me informing the neighbours to warn them in advance about the probable burning smell.

The lady at the till eyes my choice of ingredients suspiciously, but rings them up in a consistent rhythm nevertheless.

"That'll be £23.47."

"Er, right. Money. Need that." I'm so used to going shopping with Penny and Baz (they're always worried about me getting lost), that I forget people don't just give away food for free. I pull out a crinkled twenty and a fiver with a mysterious stain on the corner and hand it over to the dubious cashier, giving her a reassuring smile in response to her obvious disgust (whether to the stain or my lack of cheese-knowledge, I can't be sure).

"Want a bag?" I nod, to which she replies, "5p."

I grab the Waitrose bag off the register while at the same time pulling my phone from my pocket, hoping for a least a 'how's your day?' message from Baz. A blank screen stares back at me, empty of any texts. I sigh and slide the mobile back into my pocket as I continue out the door. The doors are just closing behind me when the shopping bag in my hand gives way and all the food spills out on the concrete. I groan and press a hand to my forehead, swearing softly under my breath. Not a great start to the afternoon.

Baz

My eyes narrow and I can feel my upper lip pulling into a sneer. This one isn't out of reflex, it's a well directed scoff.

"I can take it. _Please,_ it's not a problem." The brunette man I'm arguing with tries his best to raise an eyebrow but just ends up making him look like a disgruntled ferret.

"No really, let me help." He replies, and my jaw clenches tighter. "Evan Wimbley, as I'm sure you know. Lovely to meet you." His smile is so sickly sweet that I'm sure I could've smelled it three floors above. The slender man holds out a manicured hand. I have a suspicion that he would do his best to "help" me deliver my article to the editor, and maybe even conveniently misplace it along the way. Or if he likes the wording, he might even pinch a line or too. _Amateur._ Evan seems to think that as I'm still relatively new in the journalism industry he can plot against me. My lips spread thinly over my teeth in a menacing grin. _He_ flaunts _his_ name like it's something to be proud of.

"Tyrannus Basilton Pitch." The smirk drops from his face. I ignore his waiting palm, and instead pluck the papers from under his other arm. "And the pleasure is all mine."

I promptly turn, walking down the empty hallway to my boss's office. Resisting the urge to sneak a glance back at his flabbergasted face is difficult - I forget sometimes how thrilling it is to revert to my old ways. Snow's voice choruses in my head. _Ruthless._

The slight heel on my boot echoes, accompanied only by my the distant whir of printing machinery and my shallow breaths and. Today's my first day turning in a proper article, hopefully one that will make it into The London Daily. Such a Normal-sounding name for a newspaper, ironically it's the only paper that features news for the magickal community. Obviously you need a spell to read it. **Black and white and read all over** works well, but more obscure phrases are used for messages meant only for The Coven or Watford. I had to subtly interrogate Bunce's mother for well over an hour for that bit of information. It's an admittedly brilliant system, and of course I said yes when the editor herself asked me to join her team.

The open door marked Editor looms closer. A voice is drifting down the corridor, she's probably on the phone. So now I'll have to stand outside, trying my best not to look like a lost intern. And now definitely isn't the time for an **Open Sesame**.

"I really have gone soft." I mumble to myself just as the door is pushed open in front of me

"Ah, Tyrannus. Good to see you." I'm a full foot taller than her, yet she still seems to peer over her ovular glasses at me.

"You too. Kam." Having only meet me twice, the editor acts as if we're just out for a daily walk. "And just Baz works."

"Right, sorry Basilton. I was just off for a cup of tea in the tearoom. Join me?" Relief spreads through me as we hurry down the corridor to the elevator. The empty, silent elevator. Should I make conversation or just pretend to review my papers?

My worry is short lived - as soon as those doors close Kam explodes into a flurry of questions, all of them centered around my well being, how I'm settling in.

"And how is that father of yours?" I immediately stiffen. I'd know that the editor and my father were acquaintances. I'd also been assured that connection had had no sway when I applied for this job. But when you've spent your whole life with Special Pitch Perks, it's hard to know when you've achieved something by yourself.

"Basilton." Kam looks faintly amused, wisps of chocolate brown hair falling from her bun.

"Pardon?"

"You're here because of your unique writing style." I'm fairly sure she has some sort of mind-reading powers. Or have I lost a grip on my overly-expressive eyebrows? "Not because that father of yours likes to throw his influence and money around." Seconds of analyzing later, I find the right phasing.

"You don't like him." I've found that statements get the truth out more efficiently than questions.

"Hm?" Kam looks up from her tea.

"You don't like him." When I came to the office today I wasn't planning on staging another interrogation, but it's not very often that I find people that will speak out against the head of the Pitch household. Maybe I should take down emails and write a monthly newsletter.

Now she's staring right at me, jaw set.

"And? Neither do you." _Merlin,_ this woman is excruciating.

"Avoiding the subject." I counter.

"So are you." We sit in silence, both of us too stubborn to give in before the other. Finally after a long moment of stalemate, I throw my hands up in frustration.

"Here, just read this." I thrust my writing across the table at her and watch as she silently scans the pages. Her face isn't showing any emotion, and it's not helping my nerves guess what she's thinking. So I **some like it hot** my tea and take a long sip. _Chamomile._ Calming, but I should have gone with a caffeine option. I wasn't able to feed this morning and the constant thrum of my coworkers blood doesn't exactly create a healthy writing environment.

"Brilliant." I glance up at Kam's enthusiastic grin.

"Pardon."

"Oh, come off it Basilton. You know what I said." My brow cocks, just to make sure she's serious. "How long did it take you to write this?"

"Five hours." I could've done it much faster had I not had to deal with Simon. _Bloody hell. Simon._ I'm supposed to be home for six. It's five now, but factoring in the Friday commuter traffic, I'll be lucky to make it in time.

"Well, for five hours, this is pretty damn brilliant."

"Thanks. Thank you. I appreciate it." I'm trying to discreetly wrap up the conversation, if I don't get going now I'll be late for Simon's 'Big Surprise'.

"Leaving so soon?" I must look concerned when I look up because she continues. "Go. Don't worry."

"Yes. Sorry. Thank you so much for your feedback." I quickly reply, breathing a sigh of relief.

I'm practically jogging out the the cafe door, when she shouts, "And Basilton, don't forget to buy a paper to read tomorrow."

No matter how hard I try to school my face, my smile doesn't fade until I open the door to Simon's apartment.


	3. Poise and Rationality

**Author's Note: Hey again to our wonderful readers! Sorry this took such a long time to update again, been busy prepping for Halloween :). As you know, all characters and original plot ideas belong to the brilliant Rainbow Rowell. A bucketload of credit to my talented co-writers demonoa and .olive! Keep calm and carry on reading!**

Simon

I was always the sun, apparently. Baz told me once that he was circling around me, always feeling that he was the one fated to burn out, like the way a star slowly fades from existence. But I guess fate changes when you start snogging your vampire nemesis.

It turns out that even though I lost my magic and stopped being the sun - or whatever metaphor Baz likes to use - I haven't lost the ability to set things on fire. The smoke alarm goes off just as Baz begins to knock furiously on the apartment door.

"Snow?" He hollers over the ringing. "Snow, are you okay?"

"Yeah, be with you in a sec, love." I have this secret suspicion Baz likes it when I call him that. Hopefully that'll lessen the blow I'm bound to receive when I actually open the door. I'm a bit preoccupied right now, desperately trying to clear the smoke hanging lazily around the kitchen ceiling with fashion magazine, a product of the burnt rice. Baz's pounding grows louder against the oak, doing nothing to help my steadily aching head.

"Open the bloody door, Snow, dammit!" _Merlin,_ is he shouting? Baz never really gets angry with me anymore, just a bit frustrated, (this usually happens when I beat him at FIFA). I remember the one time I actually saw him get truly mad - it was back at Watford, in our 5th year. His father had come to take him away for Christmas break early for some reason, and Baz went mad. You could hear the screaming from the pair of them in every corner at Watford. But taking into consideration that I'm running around and waving my arms, desperately trying to stop the beeping instead of opening the door, he's probably more than annoyed right now.

I glance at the stove briefly. It's starting to worry me how the rice keeps smoking, despite how tired my arms are from swishing the haze around. Then it occurs to me that turning off the stove might help, so I chuck Vogue onto the floor, move the dial to zero, and fill the fiery pot with cool water. Less than five seconds later, I have my second big aha moment of the evening - smoke alarms probably have an off button, although Baz might not. I wipe my forehead and run for the laundry room, my best bet for where the broom is.

"Open the door, or so help me I will open it myself!" I doubt Baz will ever forget his set of keys again. The broom is exactly where I left it, jammed in the back behind our tiny drying rack. I say a silent thank-you to the Holy Cleaning Gods that Penny didn't move it to wherever it's actually supposed to go. It takes a few seconds of wild stabbing at the ceiling (and quite a few chips in the paint) to hit the button labelled 'POWER', but eventually the smoke alarm makes one final, defeated screech and goes silent. I sigh, then remember the smoke and my throat switches mid-exhale to a sharp cough. A moment later, another throat clearing comes from behind me.

"Snow." Baz is standing in the open doorway, wand in hand, grimacing in disbelief.

"Oh. Hey. Baz." I pause, not sure what he's thinking of the disaster in front of him. "I was thinking, do you want to eat out tonight?"

Baz

Of all the damned days I could forget my key. Well, Penelope's key. I've been staying in their apartment for the past week, keeping an eye on Simon. Clearly he needs constant supervision. I can see why we were never allowed to have a hot water kettle in our room back at Watford.

I can't even begin to piece together the catastrophic scene before me. Simon's standing behind our kitchen counter, curls standing at all angles, hanging limply, smoke swirling around him. His leathery tail is slashing through the air behind him, the hiding spell worn off. If I hadn't seen what happened when he used up all his magic to defeat the Humdrum, I would've thought that he'd been attacked by some rogue goblin and gone off. But the air around Simon isn't shimmering with power, and he looks dazed rather than angry.

"Baz, how did you-,"

" **Bend it like Beckham**." I reply curtly, nodding at the bent lock on our front door. I want to ask him what the hell he was trying to do, but Snow's standing there with such a pitiful expression that I think it would break him. _Or he could just collapse onto the floor,_ I think as Snow leans against a wall and crumples, head tucked into his knees. Seeing him like that makes this cold, scared part of me snap. As I stride over to Simon, I take in the pots and pans scattered around the kitchen, as well as the soggy Mary Berry cookbook propped open to dry - the twit must of managed to drop it in the sink. Almost to him, I stop and he lifts those round blue eyes up to me.

"Were you… were you trying to make dinner for me?" It seems absurdly obvious now, the embarrassed flush on his flour-dusted cheeks. He shouldn't even have needed flour for any of the recipes he was trying to attempt. A minute ago, before I spelled the door open I was worried. I know better than anyone what a tragic past Simon has with fire, and for a moment I was back in the forest outside the Pitch manor. Except this time Snow really was on fire, and there was nothing I could do to save him. It's possible I overreacted, and Bunce'll be ticked off about the broken lock, but it honestly took all my limited self control not to burn down the door. And I swear I'm not a pyromaniac.

A tear begins to glisten in the corner of Simon's eye, and his wings have drooped around him like a protective shell. Because I'm just as disturbed as I was during my days of unrequited love, I begin to laugh. Maybe I'm over-tired, or giddy from the adrenaline still coursing through me, but a cackle racks my body. Simon clearly doesn't know what to think, his expression shifts from confused to apologetic, and finally settles on the timeless 'he's plotting' face. Eyes narrowed, Snow looks identical to my fifth year nemesis (that's when I fully realized how far I'd fallen for him, explains why he looks so attractive now).

"What's so funny?" I expected a basic remark like that, he was The Chosen One after all and never knowingly under-clichéd.

"You made me dinner." I reply, finally too out of breath to continue laughing, so I settle for a smirk instead. Simon unclasps his knees to gesture to the fleshy chicken still laying in the pan. I doubt he's even washed it.

"I wouldn't exactly call that dinner." The annoyance is thickly spread over his reply, although his cheeks are beginning to dry.

"I'm a vampire, remember? I wouldn't put uncooked meat past me. And we've still got that tasty egg rice you made in my honor." My sarcasm clear as I go over to survey the damage done to Penelope's metal pots, to which Snow replies by curling back into a ball and moaning.

"Just go away and let me die of embarrassment in peace."

"Fat chance of that. I feel another bout of laughter coming on." I counter, glancing back to see him draw his cornflower eyebrows together in obvious frustration. The smokey flavouring of the air is beginning to creep it's way into my lungs, so I walk over and unlock the balcony doors. Gently pushing them open, I startle a dusty gray pigeon into flying down to the London streets a few stories below. The sun has drifted behind a far off building, creating a lighting edging on the side of melodramatic. It's actually quite breathtaking - the sunset streaking the clouds in an array of pinks and oranges. I pull myself away from the scene outside and back to the one that clearly needs more attention. Simon's become an even tighter huddle against our white cabinetry and stainless steel fridge. He peaks his head up again and poses the rather ironic question of what we should eat tonight.

"Oh, do you not want this?" I reply in mock surprise, holding the slimy chicken up to him before throwing it in our stainless steel compost bin (Bunce's mother was adamant when she helped plan her daughter's apartment that they must have a color palette).

Snow groans and thumps his head back against the fridge. He's resorting to his usual language of grunts and snorts. It takes all of my small amount of willpower to resist saying "That's it Snow, use your words.".

"I'm sorry, alright?" It's not my fault I can't cook." It's unlike Snow to get upset over some burnt food (not that he's ever had a chance to burn food before). Perhaps there's something bothering him underneath that pretty face.

"You know I'm just taking the mickey, right?" Sometime he feels so much that he misinterprets every other feeling he comes across, even his own. Snow pulls his face into a grim smile and continues his previous apology.

"I… I guess…" He stammers, struggling for the right words. "I guess I'm just kind of embarrassed. I mean, I wanted this to be perfect, you know?" Simon legs slump down in resignation and he waves his arms at the kitchen and then down to himself, flour on his jean and a toe poking out of his llama socks. "And this, this is a long way off perfect."

Suddenly I'm filled with the urge to roll Simon up in the fluffiest blanket I can find and recite one of the poems I wrote in my head about him back in sixth year. Sometimes I whisper one silently and it helps me deal with him during his more exasperating moments. There are times when I feel like Simon is always hurting, always needy. That's the part of me that I'm learning to let go of, the hate that kept me from burning up at Watford. But like I said, I've become a part of the sun now. So I kneel down next him, then turn with my back against the wall so I'm sharing the space with him. My hand finds it way into his soft palm and begins to trace circles with my thumb. Head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar, Simon could be sleeping. But I know he's not by the way his mouth tilts up at the corners when I drop my head onto his shoulder.

Almost five years after the Christmas when everything changed, I still find it hard to do this. Expose myself, be vulnerable. When it's kisses and hands up tangled in hair I get lost in the blush of his cheeks and the moles on his neck, and I can be brave like I am in my head. But this is the part where I screw this imperfect balance up. I get uncomfortable and my mind wanders back to the memories of watching, always wanting, never knowing how long I could keep it up. Thousand-mile stares. So I just say his name.

"Simon." I love you's are hard. Sometimes silence is harder.

"Baz." He squeezes my hand and rests his head on top of mine. We just sit like that, fingers entwined, wings flopping around, necks aching. And when the silence starts to fill me up, and the old anxieties start to crawl in, I repeat his name.

"Simon."

"Baz."

At some point his chest starts to heave higher, and he smothers a cough. I pull away as he continues to clear his throat, only to breathe in more of the smoke still hanging in the air. My legs cramp when I stand and pull Simon to his feet and together we walk out onto the wide balcony, stopping to lean against the metal railing.

My mouth curls into a smile as I take in the scenery again. The sky has darkened to a more dramatic magenta and fiery orange, framing the muffled bustle of the streets below. The wind is swirling around us, drowning out distant car engines, accompanied by the twittering of birds. I like this silence more. It's comfortable silence, like when we go out for cherry scones in a thunderstorm, the rain making a beautiful excuse for quiet. It gives me time to contemplate the box that has been burning a hole in my pocket for a month. Then I open my mouth and face him.

"You're not perfect." He sighs and leans his elbows against the railing, running his fingers through his golden curls. Then Simon turns to me, the fading light dancing across his freckled cheeks, like he expects me to say more. And I do.

"You're not perfect. But none of this was perfect. Not Watford, not the defeating the Insidious Humdrum part, and not this. Let's face it, you hated me from the bottom of your heart for about seven years." I pause, accepting the ache that comes with acknowledging that. "You were the sun, Simon. It would have been a bloody perfect story if I'd crashed into you and burned like I was supposed to. But we're both still here."

"Yeah." The light finally reaches his eyes. "You never did what you were supposed to do."

"Says you. You fell love with the vampire you were supposed to kill." We're bantering, but I can tell by the way Simon's facing me now that we both know the truth behind that statement.

"Glad I did."

"Me too." A pause.

"Imperfect. I like it."

I answer with a grin. He reaches for my left hand and encases it in warmth.

"I love you, Baz."

"I love you too Simon." Sometimes the love can come easily to my tongue. Another pause and then he slips his palm out of mine and turns away. Disappointment floods through me. Did I do something wrong? I shift around to face the other way and as I stare at the setting sun on the horizon, it hits me. It's the right time, the right setting. I slip my hand down into my pocket and touch the velvet box. My hearts thuds in disbelief of my own bravery, as I bring it out and spin around to face him. _Inhale, exhale._ He's there, beneath me.

Simon Snow on one knee.


	4. An Exchanging of Words

**Author's Note: Finally, it all it's late glory, you can read this short wrap up to What A Beautiful Wedding :). As always, this was written with demonoa and .olive. All credits to Rainbow Rowell for these characters. To anyone that's confused about these random titles, they're lines from the song 'I Write Sins Not Tragedies' by Panic! At The Disco (just realized I probably should have said that from the beginning whoops). Happy holidays and merry christmas! Keep calm and carry on (reading)!**

Simon

Everything gets a bit blurry after that. Just because my eyes start to well up, trust me, I'm not planning on forgetting a moment of this. I thought my hands would be shaking like mad when I proposed, but my voice is steady as I speak.

"Basilton." The beautiful boy before me sucks in a breath, the drooping sun coating his edges in gold, like some sort of celestial god. Close enough. "Marry me?" For the past week I've agonized over how to do it, now I know that I chose the right words. Baz's eyebrows lift slightly, though I don't think it's me he's laughing at.

"You beat me to it Snow." Seeing my confusion, Baz pulls out an identical box from behind his back and opens it, a smile dancing across his pale cheeks. I stare in disbelief, but before I can continue Baz runs one hand through his long hair and steps closer. "But yes, Simon. Oh course I'll bloody marry you." It takes me a second to remember the question, but soon I'm standing up straight (not that I am). Just as I reach my arms around Baz's neck to give him the fairytale kiss of a lifetime, he nudges me back slightly.

"The rings, Simon."

"Right, er." My hands fumble to fit the silver loop around his delicate violinist finger, but once they do, it just feels right. In return Baz slides his ring around my finger with ease.

"Show-off." I mutter, wrapping my hands around the base of his neck, closing the space between us. There's a gentle pressure between our lips, like it's some sort of secret. So I push harder, I'll be damned if I keep this a secret. Every person in London will know that Basilton Pitch is mine, and I belong to him, for better or for worse. Starting with the gawking people on the street below, staring at the two boys, hands in hair, kissing. Not a suicidal vampire and a false Chosen One. But a sun.

Baz

I proposed. Or he did. Of-bloody-course Snow would have do it first and ruin my plans. Simon had almost burnt down the apartment and he still seems bent on uprooting my plots. I don't know why I didn't see it coming.

There are a thousand different things that I could be worrying about right not. How my father will adjust to this. How _I_ will adjust. But I don't don't worry. For one of the few times in my life I'm not analyzing, not setting myself up for failure. Not even plotting. I can't really - Simon is squeezing me so tightly I don't really have enough oxygen to breathe, let alone formulate a plan of demise.

"Simon." I gasp, secretly enjoying the pressure against my chest. Snow loosens his grip but still doesn't let go. Not that I wanted him to.

To any of the pedestrians below it would have been a strange sight. A boy straight out of a surfing magazine hugging someone as pale as the plumes of smoke pouring out through the doors. When Simon finally decides he doesn't want to strangle his boyfriend, sorry - fiance - to death, he lets me pull away just a bit.

"Read it." Simon says, nodding at me.

"Pardon?"

"The ring." He replies, rolling his eyes, and starting to pull off the ring. Except that his face twists in dismay and the silver stays firmly around my finger. When Snow finally looks up at me his eyes are wide, but somewhere in there I can see giddy mischief and I sneer instinctively.

"Snow…" My voice is a warning growl. We both know what's happened, but neither person wants to be the first to acknowledge it.

"It's stuck."

"I know."

"I'm sorry!" Simon throws his hands up comically, verging on reckless laughter. "When I was in the shop I thought about trying it on myself, but you're supposed the have skinny fingers, Baz!" To prove his point, he waves his fingers around in the air.

"Snow."

"Pitch." The no-nonsense tone is difficult to keep up, since Simon's turned into a full on hoodlum. Then it's like we both agreed to go for the Guinness World Record of staring competitions. Finally, I roll my eyes and pull out my wand.

" **The bigger the better**." Nothing happens. " **Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey**." My ring slowly turns to a gelatinous loop of metal as I work it off my finger and into my palm. I have the Whovians to thank for that, what with their obsessive use of that phase. As Simon watches in horror I stretch it slightly then slide it back on. " **Set in stone**." My ring is instantly gleaming again, like nothing ever happened, but when Simon nervously goes to pull it off, it slips with just the right amount of resistance.

"You're brilliant."

"I know." I was making up as I went along. Simon knows that but I appreciate the self-esteem boost.

"Now read it." He delicately places it in my palm and watches as I read the words engraved around the outside. _I choose you over the scones._ Simon's eyes crinkle as I look up at him and throw my head back in laughter. After all we've been through. Fighting goblins, saving the magickal world, muddling through as arch enemies. In the end, he ties it all back to scones.

"Your turn." I say pulling off his ring, - which, let me add, fits perfectly - and holding it up to him. Simon's eyes scan the words on the outside, and then pops it onto his finger nonchalantly. It's quiet and I'm not sure why, until I see Simon's eyes sparkly and wet around the edges.

"Snow, are you crying?" This is a rare time when I'm not being sarcastic or even mildly annoyed. To answer me Simon wraps his arm around me again. Try and imagine a bear hugging a tree, that's a bit what we look like now, except its slightly more romantic. When he seems to have all his squeezing vibes out Simon places his forehead against mine. The curls caught between our heads do nothing to break the ferocious eye contact between us. Blue and grey and the rest of the world.

"I love you." I whisper to the space between our lips.

Penelope

I'm just pulling on my cover up for the pool when the hotel room phone rings. I pause, my pink hair caught in the drawstrings of the shift. It rings again out into the tiny hallway. I yell for Micah. "Love, can you get the phone?" Through the piece of the head-hole I can see him poke his head around the corner of the washroom, face covered in white sun cream.

"'Course, Pen. Who's calling?" He responds, his voice lilting over to me. I decline to answer, deciding to focus on getting myself out of the predicament I'm in. My arm is caught over my head, my hand waving helplessly in the air. The strings of the cover-up are tangled in my already-knotted hair, and the bottom of the shift is wrinkled up around my stomach, revealing the bathing suit beneath. Micah appears from the loo, heading towards the still-ringing telephone. He grins, seeing me all mussed up. I glare at him and gesture as best I can towards the phone. He grabs it and lifts it up to his ear.

"This is Micah, who's this?" His face shifts from the remnants of his smile to a surprised O, and then he says "yes she is, hold on one minute, Simon."

I stop trying to disentangle myself and stand there. Why is Simon calling me? I told him he was under no circumstance to contact me while I was on my honeymoon. Then I gave him the hotel number for emergencies, and emergencies only. What could have possibly happened? Is he hurt? Is Baz hurt? Was war declared? Are they both dead ( _Penelope, honestly, Simon is calling you on the phone, you idiot_ )? A thousand possibilities run through my head, each worse than the last. I make eye contact with Micah as he puts the phone down for a second and heads over to me. He yanks the cover up until it settles onto my form and I emerge from the depths of green cotton fabric, sweaty and disheveled. Silently, Micah passes me the phone. I hold my breath, waiting for the worst. It crackles for a second, then clears and I hear Simon's voice. He's yelling, and sounds terrified. Then slowly I begin to make out what he's saying.

"Baz - Baz and I," more crackling, "are," a pause, as I digest that he is, yes, yelling, but that he sounds elated, not terrified. I relax and exhale, then tense up again in annoyance. This is my honeymoon, and I obviously love Simon to bits, but I told him to only use the line for emergencies. It doesn't sound like this qualifies as an emergency. I open my mouth to try and clarify what the hell he's trying to say, when he gets the rest of the words out - "are engaged!"

My mouth opens, then shuts again. Did he just say he's engaged? No. Possible. Way. I start to squeal, but immediately stop - I am not a squealer. Instead, I just settle for one of the biggest smiles humanly possible. Micah, who is now sitting on the bed, lifts a questioning brow. I point to the phone and then tap my left finger, where my engagement ring is. Comprehension dawns on him, and he gives a thumbs up in response, we've all been expecting it for a while. I turn my attention back to Simon, who is now shouting an explanation of how it happened. Something to do with burnt rice and a sunset? I cut him off and just say,

"Simon, I'm so happy for you! This is amazing and you have to tell me all about it when I get back, okay?" I can practically hear him grinning over the phone.

There's a pause, and then he says in a calmer tone, "Okay, Penny. I just had to tell you!" Another pause. "I love you."

"I love you too, Simon. Tell Baz I'm happy for him. And you. And don't use this line again unless there's an actual emergency," I tease him. Across an ocean, through the telephone, I can hear him laughing in glee. I picture him and Baz, holding hands with their engagement rings flashing in the sunlight. Facing each other at their soon-to-be wedding. Cutting the cake. Starting their life together. And I smile, knowing they finally got their happy ending.

And now, they can carry on.


End file.
